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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28860603">Home...?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrimmsyDra/pseuds/DrimmsyDra'>DrimmsyDra</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The A-Team (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Home, Vietnam War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:28:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>858</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28860603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrimmsyDra/pseuds/DrimmsyDra</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Murdock muses what home means to him while he waits in the helicopter for the Alpha team he is going to carry on their mission.<br/>The story takes place during the Vietnam War.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Home...?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Murdock pulled chewing gum from his mouth, pasted it on the back of the crumpled photo, and then stuck the photo to the frame, right above the side window of the cockpit of his helicopter. Out of habit. For luck. Or maybe just in case.</p><p>He ran his finger gently over a couple of elderly people standing proudly in front of the house where he grew up.</p><p>
  <em>Home.</em>
</p><p>The word rolled through his mind every time he thought of it. It had been somehow unreachable for a while. Enigmatic. Abstract. Yet he could still remember what the word meant.</p><p>Home was a place where it didn't rain on your head while you tried to sleep after a day lasting thirty-six hours. Home was a place where there were no days lasting thirty-six hours.</p><p>Home was a place where you had at least one hot meal a day. And the food tasted good and different every time and didn't always taste like a tin can.</p><p>Home was a place where you had a soft and comfortable bed, not just a bunk or a raincoat spread under the belly of your chopper.</p><p>Home was a place where there was plenty of clean, hot water. And the water was in the bathroom where you could lock yourself in, all alone, and not with ten other dirty guys scraping mud and blood off their bodies.</p><p>Home was a place where your friends didn't bleed under your feet.</p><p>Home was a place where people loved you and no one tried to kill you. At least usually.</p><p>Home was a place he carried in his heart, because it no longer existed elsewhere.</p><p>Something interrupted his thoughts; three fully loaded Hueys lifted off as slow and clumsy as three drunken bumblebees, too heavy to pierce the stifling, sticky air, and headed out somewhere into the jungle.</p><p>If they're lucky, the muchachos inside will be back in a few weeks. If they're unlucky, they will return sooner, together with a valid ticket to visit the field hospital. And if they're fucking unlucky, they won't come back at all. Because the plastic bag they would be stuffed in can't be counted.</p><p>Murdock had carried dozens of such bags. Even one would have been one too many.</p><p>His eyes slid back to the photo. For many guys, home was a dream goal. They counted down the days to when they would be able to return to their families, their girlfriends or wives, to their first or even second car which was currently standing unused in the garage. But instead, their earthly remains very often came back, wrapped in an ugly black bag.</p><p>It was better not to count the days. Not to look forward to going home. His home was here now. And not just because the photo stuck to the cockpit frame was two years old and the house on it had burned to the ground, and the two smiling people, his grandparents, the only blood relatives he had, were dead. The black-and-white image was all he had left. But what was the probability that he would ever return to the World? Chopper pilots were an easy and frequent target. The kill ratio for all military occupation specialties, including helicopter aircrews was 1 to 45. For helicopter pilots, this ratio was 1 to 18.</p><p>Murdock knew the numbers very well. He knew after his first tour that every thirteenth pilot didn't get home alive. And yet he returned here for another tour. Because this was his home now.</p><p>He was nobody in the States. A veteran of a war that many people disagreed with. A nutcase who didn't value life when he climbed into those hellish machines that were dangerous in the eyes of civilians, even without anyone shooting at them. Hell, and maybe so. He was crazy. But he was the best pilot who had ever flown in Nam. Maybe one day he would be the thirteenth. Maybe not. But he was where he was supposed to be. And up there, in the sky, that was his real home. He belonged there.</p><p>The movement at the edge of his field of vision caught his attention and he looked out. The four Green Berets were headed straight for his chopper. The young, blond Lieutenant must have been teasing the black, bulky Sergeant walking briskly beside him, because the big guy took a swing at him with his strong, fleshy arm. The Lieutenant dodged deftly and called something with a wide smile.</p><p>Due to his helmet and the rumble of his chopper, Murdock couldn't hear what the blond guy was shouting, but he could get a clear idea from the Sergeant's reaction.</p><p>This time, a big hand successfully grabbed the joking boy by his shirt, jerking him back before sending him right toward the chopper with a single strong shove.</p><p>Yes. Maybe one day he would be the thirteenth. But not today. Today, he was going to fly these four guys where they were headed. And he would stay close to them. Because he definitely intended to bring them back. Bring them home whatever <em>home</em> meant to them.</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The story is based on the second prompt of Inktober52 2021 - HOME</p><p>The kill ratio is taken from the book "To the Limit: An Air Cav Huey Pilot in Vietnam" by Tom A. Johnson</p></blockquote></div></div>
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